


Prompt #043 Journey

by kurgaya



Series: Divine Footsteps [31]
Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Translation Available, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichigo is Spanish. Tōshirō is not. This might be a problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prompt #043 Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Зарисовка #043 Путешествие](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7267129) by [a_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_m/pseuds/a_m)



> Consider this story canon up to Isshin and Masaki’s marriage, where they decide to get away from Japan and all the Soul Society stuff and move to Spain to raise their kids. What? It could have happened :)
> 
> Hopefully the Spanish is accurate, but if it's not do tell me :) I've only just started learning.

**SOS**

The bedroom that Tōshirō Hitsugaya wakes up in is so outrageously cream that he feels as if his ghostly complexion and winter-kissed hair are simply pieces of the archaic, honey-dipped furniture that is dotted minimally around the room. The space surrounding the double bed he is lain across is reasonably large – or, it would be, were books, clothes, and other seemingly mismatched possessions not scattered across the stone floor – and there is an elongated glass door to his left, letting hazardous beams of molten sunlight stream in to illuminate the perplexity of the situation the shinigami captain finds himself in. He can see the length of a rusted handrail outside of the door, and Tōshirō frowns at the amber tiled rooftops and endless, cloudless sky he can see in the distance.

As a young, fairly recently appointed captain of the Gotei Thirteen, he has not had the opportunity to travel across the human world to his heart’s content, but it still only takes him a minute or two to piece together the humid climate, the sunny interior design, and the hefty blank in his memories to come to the conclusion that he is not in Japan anymore. As to where exactly in the world he has woken to, Tōshirō cannot say, but that matters little as he sits up – the grumbling pain of a recently cared for injury throbbing in his side – and silently reaches for the territorial inhabitant of his inner world. Hyorinmaru rumbles in assurance. His unusually sleek blade materialises into existence when Tōshirō makes to shuffle off of the bed, and the captain melds with it unconsciously as he tries to gain his bearings.

The customary occupant of the room is probably male (a crumpled shirt is flopped over the back of the desk chair; a sole black sock on the floor; the sheets of the bed move as if they are unused to being made), young, but not an adolescent (there are no posters or stereotypically childish things plastered onto the walls; the room is generally well-cared for), and though studious (the bookcase is filled with texts of all shapes and sizes and there is a pot of pens on the desk; the right hand side and stuffed with a huge assortment of pens – the lad is likely right-handed and clearly not picky about what he writes with) he is probably fun-loving (bottle of alcohol) and lives with a hasty disorganisation fuelling his actions (the bin is empty; the space around it is not). Tōshirō gains no insight into malicious intentions from surveying the room, but the simple fact that he doesn’t know where he is or how he got there remains. Hyorinmaru is a comfort in his hand, so the captain glides towards the door leading into (hopefully) the remainder of the house, and it is only as he reaches to turn the door handle that he notices his left hand and waist are bandaged, and that he is quite apparently shirtless.

His haori, shitagi, kosode, tabi, and straw waraji are nowhere to be seen, but his loose-fitting hakama are still safely attached to his hips, and it is this along with the presence of the bandages that quells Tōshirō’s wild apprehension that somebody may have taken advantage of him while he slept. Yet walking around in a strange house in just a pair of hakama does not make him feel particularly any more comfortable than if he had been naked, but he needs to get to the bottom of this mystery so he sucks it up and steps out into the hallway.

There are two closed doors to his left, perpendicular to each other, and a short corridor to his right. There is no staircase so he assumes he must be in an apartment, and recalling what he guessed to be a balcony in the bedroom, it is not situated on the ground floor. Filing this information away, Tōshirō wanders down the corridor into a haze of a sweet, warm scent, and music pulsing from around the corner of the open archway. Allowing his reiatsu to search what he cannot see, he discovers there is a human in the room to the left with enough reiryoku to almost drown out Tōshirō’s perception of the world outside, and he is so caught-up in his anomaly that he completely misses said human’s exclamation when he wanders from the kitchen and spots Tōshirō standing in his way.

The human’s bright laughter pulls the captain from his surprise; Tōshirō startles, takes a step back, and automatically raises Hyorinmaru’s sheathed blade in defence. Putting his rough, tanned hands up in surrender, the unbelievably ginger human adopts a concerned, calm expression, and says something else which drifts into one of Tōshirō’s ears and then drifts right out again.

“What?” blurts the captain; rudely; he is tense.

The man’s youthful face falls rather dramatically. “¿Hablas español?”

Spanish.

The man is talking Spanish and Tōshirō has to admit that that is not one of the few languages that he knows; not one of the languages that he had ever expected to need. He takes a wild guess, however, and imagines the stranger has just asked if he can understand him.

“No,” says Tōshirō. The man’s deepening frown is an obvious indication that he cannot understand Japanese in return, but when Tōshirō shakes his head the ginger stranger drops his hands slightly with a sigh, confused features smoothing out in an attempt at having a more positive outlook.

“¿Usted es japonés?”

“Japanese,” says Tōshirō, wondering if that was the next question. “Parlez-vous français?” he tries. His French is passable and he hasn’t used it in a long time, but if the jumble he makes of it could help their dilemma then he can readily accept that.

“¿Francés? No, lo siento. ¿Quién eres?” replies the man, rubbing the back of his neck nervously; he, too, appears to be wishing that he had studied the other’s language. Instead of continuing on wasting time clarifying that they probably aren’t going to reach a mutual language, he points down at the sword at Tōshirō’s blank expression and asks; “¿Por qué tienes una espada?”

More questions that Tōshirō’s cannot answer, but he understands the query about his blade and lowers it. The human doesn’t look any more pleased, but some of the wariness drains out of his posture and he smiles openly again, shrugging as if Tōshirō’s threatening figure doesn’t concern him in the slightest. “Me llamo Ichigo. ¿Quién eres?”

He points to himself and then at Tōshirō, cocking his head in question.

“I am Tōshirō Hitsugaya,” Tōshirō says, mimicking the gesture and feeling the epitome of a blubbering fool. “Are you Ichigo?”

The stranger – Ichigo, now – continues to grin happily, and Tōshirō is momentarily struck by how young and handsome the man is. “Ichigo, sí.” He nods in confirmation and then points at the bandages expertly wrapped around Tōshirō’s skinny frame. “¿Se siente bien? ¿Está herido?”

“I don’t think you’ve quite grasped that I don’t know what you’re saying,” says Tōshirō flatly, raising a solitary white eyebrow. The situation has a fuzzy, vertigo hint of surrealism to it, and the shinigami doubts he will be any closer to finding out how he ended up in Spain – of all places – in the subsequent few hours than while he slept. Returning to the bedroom and hoping this whole conversation had been a dream is a tantalisingly appealing idea, but as Ichigo mirrors the expression, stunned into silence at the extravagance of the Japanese spoken before him, Tōshirō can’t help but humour the Fates and laugh at the sheer absurdity of _everything_.

Ichigo makes a dazed sound and glances around for salvation.

That, at least, is something Tōshirō can appreciate completely.


End file.
